


The Sun, The Moon, And All The Stars

by TheAceApples



Series: A Game of Wings [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV), Winx Club
Genre: Alternate Universe - Winx Club, Background Relationships, Crack Treated Seriously, Female Friendships yo, GFY, Gen, Genderqueer Character, No Incest, ellaria/oberyn and elia/rhaegar, grrm: sanitized a perfectly forked up story is what you did!, i do what i want because literally no one can stop me, i'm also making up my own rules about magic, jaime's chapter didn't make it any better, look at it! it's got healthy relationships!, me: i have fixed game of thrones., no betas we die like man, oops i made it a little sad, screw canon timeline and screw canon geneology, some hints of braime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-07-29 22:01:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20089459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAceApples/pseuds/TheAceApples
Summary: When the twin heirs of Queen Joanna of the Westerlands are born, the capital planet of Solaris celebrates for nine days and nine nights: three for the princess, three for the prince, and three for each Solarian sun. Soothsayers and sibyls, fortune-tellers and prophets, all agree that the children of the Sun and Moon carry great magical power within them—one shall assuredly become a Guardian Faery of the Western Realm, and the other a great hero like those of old to bring peace to all the Magical Dimension.On the morning that Queen Joanna’s death is announced, every light and fire in Casterly Rock is extinguished in honor of their beloved queen. It is regarded as the darkest day in the history of the Realm of the Sun. Few revelries are thrown when word spreads that their queen’s last child survives, but some brave souls whisper about the Prince of Stars, whose gentle light echoes that of his mother’s.





	1. Crown Princess of the Shining Sun

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Third Blessing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20093389) by [LadyRhiyana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRhiyana/pseuds/LadyRhiyana). 

> i've done weirder aus

Crown Princess of the Shining Sun, heiress apparent to the Throne of the Utmost West, Keeper of the Royal Scepter, and Jewel of Solaris was never a difficult string of titles to live up to until Cersei Lannister turned sixteen. Tutors were serviceable for the immature magic of children, but sixteen years marked the beginning of magical maturity and the need for specialized training

Father—Prince-Regent Tywin, rather—eventually selected Alfea College, citing its _ exclusive _curriculum in training future Guardian Faeries, and while Cersei was crushed to be separated from Jaime, the rush of finally coming into her own sustained her through their parting. It kept her warm, like the Second Sun of Solaris, moving through the biting cold between dimensions, and even buoyed her through the sinking feelings of loneliness and homesickness upon arrival.

The excitement of learning more magic, gaining her wings, becoming a Guardian Faery like Queen Mother before her, could have sustained her through anything.

Anything except the realization that every faery in Alfea, from Headmistress Olenna down to the meekest of her fellow freshmen, had a better grasp on their _ Winx _ form than Cersei did. Telekinesis and transmogrification were a cinch, but she’d never so much as fluttered in a breeze. It took three weeks and a hostile encounter with a Cloud Tower witch named Osha for Cersei to earn her wings.

Unfortunately, it set the tone for her time as a faery-in-training.

-

Slamming open the door felt cathartic, but face-planting directly into her bed was pure relief.

“How did your final go, Cerse?” Lyanna ventured from her side of their shared room, not looking up from her packing. Cersei’s drawn-out groan in response seemed to be received in the spirit it was intended. “That well, huh?”

Cersei, with great effort, rolled over. “My entire body aches, my magical core feels depleted, and if I have to move so much as another muscle today, I am going to liquefy like one of Mace’s potionology assignments.” She let out another miserable groan. “And I still have to _pack.”_

“How the Headmistress herself has such a useless example of a fae for a grandson, I’ll never know,” Lyanna acknowledged the jab with a snort. “But as for packing…”

Alarmed by the mischievous lilt to her roommate’s voice, Cersei cracked an eye just in time to see Lyanna wave her hands and send a gust of icy magic toward her belongings. Every article of clothing, scrap of paper, piece of jewellery, bit, bob, and knickknack in Cersei’s possession surged into several luggage cases waiting, empty, at the foot of her bed. Every speck of it all, once unpacked, would no doubt be covered in a fine layer of hoarfrost.

Shivering, she pushed herself up onto her arms to glare at Lyanna’s quietly smug face. “I _ hate _ it when you do that,” she said, mutinous, before letting herself fall back onto the bedcovers. “How did I ever get stuck with a Faery of _ Winter _as a roommate?”

A set of knuckles rapped softly on the still-open door, followed by the blessedly warm winds of a desert. “It seems a bit chilly in here for a sun faery,” the owner observed, coyly resting her hip on the door-jam. “Not fighting again, are you, Princesses?”

“Ellaria Sand, have my children,” Cersei replied, basking in the newly-restored warmth. “Please,” she added, for politeness’ sake.

Ellaria hummed, pretending to think it over. “I have a date with Oberyn tomorrow night, so I think not.” Then she grinned sharply. “But, then again, what's life without a little adventure?”

“Ugh.” Cersei grimaced. “Whatever adventures you have planned with Elia’s witch of a brother, kindly leave me out of them.”

_ “Heard my name?” _ Elia’s voice echoed from the other side of the dormitory.

“Ellaria’s being weird about your brother!” Cersei shouted while Ellaria yelled back, “Cersei and I are eloping with Oberyn tomorrow night! You’re invited to the service—cash gifts only, please!”

Lyanna cackled at Cersei’s expression of horror and ducked out of the way of a low-level energy blast.

_ “… Rhaegar says congratulations to the happy throuple, but we can’t make it!” _ Elia called back after a long silence. _ “Do you have a registry?” _

“Fuck’s sake, ‘Laria,” Cersei muttered, finally heaving herself off the bed and over to the door. “Elia Martell, you better not be live-texting your godsawful betrothed again! I will skin you alive if the next rumor flying ‘round Red Fountain is that I’ve gone and married a couple of Dornish spares!”

_ “… Rude! See if we buy you wedding presents now!” _

_ “Cash gifts only!” _ Ellaria reminded her princess as she sprawled across Cersei’s still-warm sheets. “And I'm the heir to Hellholt, actually.”

“My apologies,” Cersei acknowledged with a faux-polite curtsy. “A Dornish spare and a member of the _ Dornish gentry._ Much better. Father would have my crown off my head faster than light. Assuming he doesn’t already, after he sees the results of my final exam..."

Ellaria cackled at what she called a _royal insult,_ but Lyanna groaned a tossed a pillow at Cersei’s head. “Give it a rest, Cerse—you did fine. Better than! In fact, you probably set some kind of record, like you always do!” The temperature of the room dropped with the Stark Princess’ rising ire. “You’ve witched and moaned all about being behind everyone else in Alfea, but you’ve pulled the highest marks out of everyone in the year since our first big test. Face it, sunshine, you’re just a late bloomer!”

“Mmm, Lya’s right, you know,” Ellaria said, idly twirling a lick of flame around her fingers. “It was bound to happen. You can’t be good at _ everything, _ Cerse, it isn’t fair. Just take your one, single flaw with your many, many strengths and be glad the school year is done, yes? Aren’t you excited to be going home?”

“I—” Cersei hesitated, then shook her head. Best not get into it during their last day of the year. The magical exhaustion, the sleepless nights, the nightmares and shakes that came from drawing too deeply from her magical core. They were right. She consistently outperformed everyone else in their year, not to mention half the sophomores, so what did it matter if she felt like spun glass most of the time? It was nothing. “Of course, I’m ecstatic to be going home, since I _ couldn’t go over spring break, _ ** _Elia!”_ **

_ “Oh, fuck off!” _

She settled next to Ellaria on the bed and curled up around the desert faery to wax poetic about Solaris, and Jaime squiring on Domino, and how happy she was to see Casterly Rock after being away for so long.

-

Achieving her _ Charmix _ form wasn’t _ easy, _ by any means, but nearly two full years at Alfea had settled Cersei into a rhythm of finessing her way through lessons, brute-forcing her way through examinations, and _ willing _ herself and her command of _ nox _ magic to grow.

It worked.

Until it didn’t.

Three years of blood, sweat, and tears at Alfea College for Faeries, down the drain when it came time to graduate. No matter what she did, no matter how hard she tried, her golden wings stayed small and petite, her scarlet dress remained plain, her _ Charmix _ brooch glinted in the light, and the power of _ Enchantix _ stayed firmly beyond her reach.

Father was furious.

-

“The answer is quite simple,” Headmistress Olenna said, weathering Father’s glower with aplomb. “Princess Cersei is not, I’m afraid, _ meant _to be a faery.”

Cersei stared down at her hands, gracefully folded in her lap, and refused to look at Father.

“Explain,” he commanded through gritted teeth. _ “Now.” _

Headmistress Olenna fixed him with a stern look. “The poor girl’s magical core isn’t compatible,” she said frankly. “Faeries are heavily reliant on _ nox _ magic to begin with, but the _ Enchantix _ form cannot tolerate anything more than trace elements of _ aether _ in the subject’s core. The combination is too volatile—it collapses the transformation field immediately. Your daughter, no matter the incredible skill and determination it must have taken to push her through the _ Winx _ and _ Charmix _ forms, will never be a Guardian Faery.”

It became very difficult to hear anything beyond the ringing in her ears after that, but Cersei had heard enough.

-

She threw a chalice embossed with the Lannister lion at Tyrion’s head when he snuck up on her, staring at the sea around Casterly Rock, and gleefully hissed, _ “I diagnose you with witch!” _ into her ear.

“You’re an awful little brat!” she shrieked, looking around for something else to chuck at his head as he ducked and weaved, cackling madly. “I can’t believe nobody’s punted you into the sea, you little imp!”

“Ah, but then who would be the Lannister on the Rock!” he replied with a grin, dancing out of the way of the Sun Flare she shot his way. He snickered when a grape bounced off his forehead and onto the stone floor, then carefully settled down next to her on the edge of the balcony when she’d slumped back down. “I heard Father speaking to the Headmistress of Cloud Tower in his study,” Tyrion finally said, looking up at her with his big, mismatched eyes full of sympathy. “Melisandre, I think her name is. Though I hear the upperclassmen are allowed to call her the ‘Headwitchstress’.”

Cersei snorted. “They are. And she already _ hates _ me,” she said glumly. “Lya, ‘Lia, ‘Laria, and I ruined all the inter-school pranks for three years running. I think she put out a hit on us senior year because of it. Or maybe Osha was just pissed. Wildling, and all that.”

“Crown Princess Catelyn?”

“Stayed out of it, for the most part.”

“Well, look on the bright side,” Tyrion offered, then hesitated. “At least there’s always… Beta Academy?”

They contemplated that thought together in silence.

“I’d rather throw myself into the Infinite Sea,” Cersei declared, her lip curling at the thought. “If I’m going to be a witch, then I’m going to be trained by the best that Magix has to offer. Not some mixed-magic public school.”

Tyrion reached up and patted her shoulder. “There you go,” he said bracingly. “Now let’s go find Jaime and pummel him. That’s always good fun, and he's been acting strange ever since he got back.”

Laughing, because it was better than sniffling like a child, Cersei hauled both herself and then Tyrion to their feet. “Yes, let’s.”

-

The summer passed in a haze of Solarian festivals and whirlwind preparations for Cersei’s Princess Ball.

Jaime remained tight-lipped about his squireship, but the new stress-lines on his face gradually eased until he was almost the same smiling brother he'd always been. He drilled in the courtyard and fetched refreshments for them in the library and teased and comforted Cersei about becoming a witch in equal measure and never let a word pass his lips about the goings-on of Domino and the Targaryen court. By the time the night of the ball arrived, his reticence was forgotten in favor of celebrating.

Now Guardian Faeries of Dorne, the Northlands, and the Riverlands, each of her former-roommates made fantastical entrances to the ball, appearing in showers of glitter and sparks and clad in beautiful, flowing gowns. Elia, finally married to Crown Prince Rhaegar of Domino, looked a little wan and washed out, draped in layers of satin and samite in her Martell red, orange, and gold, but embraced Cersei as warmly as ever. Ellaria, in artful strips of Uller red and yellow that made no effort to disguise her swelling belly, kissed Cersei full on the mouth and laughed delightedly at her expression. Lyanna stood out in heavy white and grey furs of the Northlands, while Catelyn’s bodice and full skirt of Tully blue lent an appropriately regal air to the newly-crowned Queen of the Riverlands.

At the end of the night, when Father announced that Cersei would be attending Cloud Tower Academy for Witches at the start of the next term, there was a ripple of surprise followed by supportive applause. It helped boost her spirits when she departed three days later.

-

In keeping with the theme of her life, _ Osha _ ended up being the R.A. for her new dorm.

Cersei gulped and smiled winningly at the Wildling senior—who’d never consented to call her anything but “little pixie” as long as they’d known each other—but other than a few tame threats of dismemberment, the arrangement seemed to suit. The senior witch had mellowed out over the course of their friendly rivalry just enough to accept Cersei’s change in primal form with a diplomatic shrug, and even let her look over some old assignments. Gave her a few tips on hexing, too, which they both knew was Osha’s specialty.

Her new roommates, though, made her feel old just looking at them: bright-eyed and boisterous sixteen-year-olds to Cersei’s far more seasoned and settled twenty. The Crown Prince of the Reach, Willas, was an agreeable enough lad, not raising an eyebrow at her age. Benjen Stark greeted her like long-lost kin.

And then, of course, Elia’s brother Oberyn was the teaching assistant for her Intro to Poisons course. He looked like his nameday had come early when she first stepped through the classroom doors.

It wasn’t as awful a time as Cersei had feared, however. The final grades for her first semester were fairly abysmal—learning to use _ aether _ instead of _ nox _ was a bit like a mermaid learning to breathe air instead of water—but magic came easier at Cloud Tower than it ever had at Alfea. The witches around her even came to view her _ Winx _ and _ Charmix _ forms as fun party-tricks more than anything, after a few thwarted attempts at hazing.

Still, spring break saw Cersei remaining on campus for remedial studies.

After all, _easier _ didn’t mean _ easy, _ and she’d spent three years of intensive magical training exclusively learning to use _ nox _ magic. It took some getting used to. But, no stranger to hard studying and uncooperative magic as Cersei was, the day before the start of second semester came with a breakthrough.

_ Aether _ magic didn't feel soft and dark like _ nox _ magic, but bright and sharp, like a lightning strike; if she wanted to use it, she had to be the lightning rod, rather than the earth. By the end of the year, the only freshman with higher marks than Cersei was a rather dour-looking Baratheon.

He seemed to take it as a challenge.

-

(The less said about the following summer, the better.)

(Many worried, quietly and to themselves, that Jaime might never recover.)

-

Witches didn’t have forms.

It shocked Cersei, a little, when she finally realized.

Yes, when she had her freshman breakthrough and finally managed a transformation field, it was exciting and dramatic in the same way that accessing her _ Winx _ form used to be. But for all that she could reach for her _ aether _ and _ twist _ it, and suddenly be wearing a delightfully plunging neckline, leather pants, swooshing cape, and stylized C on a chain against her diaphragm, it was almost entirely… _ aesthetic, _ for lack of a better word.

There were no higher forms to reach, or bright, flashy costume changes to signify levels of power. A witch simply stepped sideways through their magic and came out the other side wearing a visible representation of their allegiance to _ aether. _ A witch was a witch was a witch; a freshman couldn’t be separated from the headmistress but their ages.

It was, for a crown princess, somewhat of a letdown; it was, for a failed faery, terribly refreshing.

-

Just because they didn’t have different forms, however, didn’t mean there weren’t different levels of power and benchmarks to be met.

Freshmen focused on _ erebos, _ connecting with their _ aether _ on a deeper level than mere superficial use; sophomores were meant to learn _ khaos,_ the social and cultural aspects of witchery; juniors aimed for _ zephyros, _ the art of flying and further mastering their magical domains; and a senior could only graduate by demonstrating _ empyrus, _ the soul-deep embracing of and commitment to the use of _ aether. _

In the wake of the fall of Domino, Cersei buried herself in _ khaos. _Embracing the icy proudness that Melisandre projected and throwing herself into the mischief of inter-school rivalries was an escape from the political turmoil outside the Tower.

She was only a student, two-thirds of a faery and not even that much of a witch; it was more important that she train and focus on her studies than watch the Magical Dimension threaten to crumble around their ears.

-

“And, _ oh, _ to fly again!” Cersei sighed insistently, trying to tell if Tyrion looked taller upside-down. “I've _ missed _ flying, Tyr, so much. It's one of the few things I've _ really missed _ about being a faery.”

“I look forward to experiencing it myself, then,” Tyrion replied with a small smile. He seemed very amused by the way she'd draped herself on the chaise lounge by the fire—feet slung over the back, hair gathering dust and dirt on the floor—and not at all serious enough for how ecstatic Cersei was to finally fly again. “I’m sure it will be quite a boon, being able to look people in the eye without a ladder. I may never let my feet touch the ground again.”

Cersei frowned.

“You don’t _ have _ to be a fae,” she mumbled through the haze of wine that made her tongue feel clumsy inside her head. It also made it even more difficult to tell if Tyrion’s flippant words came from humor or humor to cover bitterness—a feat that was terribly difficult even without the drunkenness and melancholia. “You—you could be a wizard or, or a Specialist!” Twisting around on the chaise, she propped her chin on her hands and fixed her littlest brother with a very stern and grown up look. “You don’t have to just—_do _ what Father tells you to.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Tyrion tutted, giving her a look of his own, which was much more eloquent than hers and said very clearly that he thought that was the stupidest thing to ever come out of her mouth. His face could be very rude like that. She’d spouted _ plenty _worse nonsense than that when she was a teenager. “There hasn’t been an unequal magical balance in the heirs of Solaris for two hundred years, and Jaime is already training to be a Specialist. Besides, Father is the Prince-Regent of the Westerlands until you finish your education—or appoint a new regent, I suppose—and I haven’t even reached my majority yet.” He spread his hands. “What else do you propose I do?”

Scowling, Cersei wracked her brain for an answer. “You could, _ hmmm… _ He could, _ ahhh… _ Oh! I’ve _ got _ it!” Clapping her hands together excitedly, she rolled off the chaise and bounced to her feet. “I’ll make _ you _ the new regent!”

A metallic crash broke the stunned silence and Cersei turned to see Jaime, thunderstruck. The silver platter of fruits and scones lay scattered at his feet.

_ “You’ll do what?” _

-

Father was furious.

_ Again. _

Cersei acknowledged his point that someone under the age of majority couldn’t possibly function as regent, but refused to back down. Before she returned to Cloud Tower the following week, formal announcements had been made that Tyrion Lannister, the Prince of Silver Stars, was now Hand of the Queen on Solaris.

A position that, politically speaking, eked out just a tad bit more respect than that of regent.

Tyrion almost cried at the ceremony, it was _ fantastic. _

-

“You’re a bloody senior witch; shouldn’t you be able to _ do _ something!” Jaime shouted over the shrill screams of the besieged faeries on the other side of the clearing and ferocious roars of the minotaur doing the besieging. “A spell, an energy blast, something!”

Rolling her eyes, Cersei ducked out from behind their shelter of an uprooted tree and aimed her strongest attack at the creature’s hide. It bellowed, in either pain or anger, but the spell itself ricocheted back towards them. Cersei threw herself once again behind the enormous tree’s bulk. “My magic isn’t strong enough to get through its hide!” she yelled back, peeking over the trunk to see that the freshmen had banded together to distract the minotaur from charging the twins. Huddled atop a large boulder, they kept trying—and failing rather spectacularly—to create a convergence attack strong enough to harm it. “What about you, hero? I thought that ‘blade of yours could ‘pierce any monster’s hide’?”

“Well, you know me, sweet sister,” Jaime fired back as he chucked something at the minotaur’s hooves, “I’d lose my head if it wasn’t attached to the rest of me!”

“Are you _ joking?” _ she shrieked over the following explosion. “You _ lost _ it?”

“Take a look,” he said with a shrug, pointing towards the western edge of the clearing.

Outraged, Cersei poked her head around the tree trunk and spied Brightroar twinkling on the ground like the great, golden, _ useless _ hunk of metal and magic that it was. “Un-fucking-believable,” she swore and sat back to determine if she had enough _ aether _ to teleport. She barely had enough to fly, feeling more and more drained as the battle wore on. “Jaime Lannister, you are a useless twit of a Specialist and I am going to have Tyrion ring your neck when we get back home!”

“He’s not tall enough,” Jaime replied, taking potshots at the beast with his Red Fountain-issue phantoblaster. It roared at the two-pronged assault but clearly wasn’t sure which was the greater annoyance, and remained stationary.

“You’ve sunk low enough for him to reach,” Cersei muttered darkly. “Shit, alright, I have an idea but I don’t know if it’s going to work.”

“Well,” he said pragmatically as she prepared to run, “it can hardly be worse than no plan at all.”

“Keep that in mind, would you? I’d like to have it carved on my tombstone,” Cersei snapped, then tossed herself into the open at just the wrong moment. Finally sensing an easy target, the minotaur immediately dropped its head and charged. An energy blast, even weaker than her last, did nothing but singe her cape when she was almost too slow to dodge the ricochet.

With a mighty bellow, it swung one meaty arm, almost as large as she was, and Cersei used one last burst of _ aether _ to push herself off the ground and into the air. Just before she reached the arc of the jump, she sent a quick prayer up to who or whatever was listening, and _ reached. _

The thing about witches and faeries, Cersei had concluded after many years of contemplation, was that while they, themselves, were not dichotomous, the _ aether _ and _ nox _ magics they relied upon _were._ It had been devastating to learn that her magical core contained too much _ aether _ to ever become a Guardian Faery of her realm; the realization that, on the flip-side, she had far too much _ nox _ to ever make a proper witch either was far less of a shock.

After all, what kind of a witch reached for a _faery’s _magicalform when at the end of their rope?

The wave of _ nox _ hit her mid-jump, washing away her witch’s robes with the ill-fitting yet familiar trappings of her faery form. The little golden wings she’d once lamented carried her farther still, and she landed in a crouch next to Brightroar’s gilded hilt.

Fingers tingling as they wrapped around the magic-infused metal, Cersei scooped the sword out of the dirt and flew for the faeries’ refuge. The creature’s fingers brushed the leather soles of her boots and roared its frustration as her wings carried her out of its reach. She landed in the center of the group and took stock. They were even younger than she'd first guessed.

One lad had the Stormlands look; the other an Ironman if Cersei was a Westerwoman. One girl looked so much like Catelyn Tully it was like peering into an image of the past; the second put Cersei in mind of the Reach; and the third fixed her with an expression so reminiscent of Osha, she could only be from the Wildlands. Not a bad batch, all said and done. If only they could be coaxed to work together _properly._

“Oh! We thought you were a witch,” the Reachwoman said, curious. Something about her voice had Cersei thinking about her roommate, Willas.

“I _ am _ a witch,” she replied with a flippant grin, watching the pixies—for they couldn’t possibly be attending Alfea at this age, even if they _ were _ neck-deep in Black Mud Swamp—as they exchanged confused looks. “Now, how about you and I show this beastie what a _ real _ convergence looks like?”

The Tully girl moved first, taking Cersei’s free hand with Lyanna Stark’s ice cold grip. Her companions blinked before following suit, and joined hands as well. Cersei looked into the girl’s eyes and saw Winter staring back at her. Grinning, she turned to face the now-more-furious-than-ever minotaur. “All together now,” she commanded, squaring her shoulders and pointing the tip of Brightroar directly at the creature’s heart. “Reach into your magical core. Let the _ nox _ flow through you and into me. I’ll tell it where it needs to go from there.”

A chorus of _ yes, ma’ams _ followed and Cersei felt the power begin to build, first at a trickle, and then a flood as they all got a handle on what they needed to do. She’d never felt so much _ nox _ at once, filling her up from sole to crown, and Cersei knew she couldn’t contain it long.

Breathing deeply, she carved a path for the magic to follow, nudging it towards the glittering red crystal set into Brightroar’s crossguard. The blade glowed ever brighter and brighter until it was nothing so much as a miniature sun. It nearly vibrated with all the magic it contained, until it felt like the sword would explode in her hand if she didn’t use it soon.

The magic cut off abruptly as the convergence reached its conclusion.

“Good,” she huffed out, feeling a bit like she’d downed several cups of wine, “very good. Now stand back.”

They all obeyed just as easily as before, though the Stormlord jostled the Ironman when he didn’t move fast enough for the bigger lad’s taste, who in turn jabbed him in the ribs. The Tully girl cooled them both off with a blast of snow once the minor slap-fight that ensued encroached on her personal space, and Cersei couldn’t help the rush of fond remembrance for her old faery friends.

“Here goes,” she murmured, catching Jaime’s eye across the clearing, who nodded and raised his blaster. The first shot landed between the minotaur’s shoulder blades, the second glanced its shoulder as it turned, and the third hit it square in the chest. They did no damage, but that wasn't the point.

Watching the creature charge at her brother, Cersei backed up a few paces, then ran and pushed off the edge of the boulder to give her that much more power. The beast, sensing danger, pulled up and turned its great body just in time for Brightroar’s shining golden blade to sink nearly to the hilt into its chest. It roared again as it fell to the ground, then stilled, and was silent.

“That,” a breathless voice said, close behind her, “was amazing.”

Cersei pulled the sword from the creature’s corpse, letting her faery form dissipate and deactivating the blade with little thought, before turning to see the Tully girl. No longer in Rivers blue and ladybug wings, instead draped in Stark white and grey, her ice-chip eyes shined with awe as she took in the gory scene.

“Will we _ all _learn ta do that?” the Stormlord called from where he helped the Reachwoman back to solid ground. Despite his looks, he had a thick Crownlands accent that she imagined made Jaime flinch. “Cuz I won’t mind goin’ ta Alfea if tha’s the kind of sh—stuff we’ll be learnin’.”

Jaime laughed as he vaulted over the fallen tree. “My sister is a force of nature all her own,” he said with a bright, Lannister smile. “I doubt even the laudable teachers of Alfea had much to do with what we just saw. That was entirely her own doing.”

The lad looked a bit disappointed, until Cersei reached over and shoved Jaime in the shoulder, at which point he just looked amused. The golden twins of Lannister scuffling like puppies tended to have that effect. She had Jaime right where she wanted him—that is, she had one leg wrapped around his waist from the side, pinning his arm down, while she desperately tried to manage a physically-impossible headlock—when the tallest woman Cersei had ever seen crashed through the underbrush.

“Your Royal Highnesses,” the woman gasped, looking exhausted and not a little worse for wear. She breathed in deep gulps of air and leaned heavily against a boulder. The gold and silver dragonfly wings behind her fluttered anxiously, one bent at an odd angle. The coronet studded with rose-colored jewels sat askew amongst her white-gold curls, the layers of azure sateen that gathered beneath her bust and cascaded down to her knees looked dirty and ragged at the hem, and her jeweled sandals were caked in swamp mud, twigs, and leaves. “Ser Storm, Free-Lady,” she continued, nodding respectfully at the Stormlad and Wildling.

Cersei marveled at the juxtaposition of breathtaking physical disarray and courtly manners, but for once, Jaime was quicker than her.

“Your Grace,” he called in unabashed delight from his slowly-hunching position beneath Cersei’s weight. “How wonderful to—oof, _ Cerse, _ get off—to see you again! I’m afraid you _ just _ missed all the fun!”

The unknown duchess, swathed in _ Enchantix _ power that Cersei could feel clear across the glade, took a visibly deep breath before straightening up to her full, considerable height. “Prince Jaime,” she said with a blank face and a regal nod. “My thanks for your assistance. The tour group was attacked nearby, close to Lake Rocalucce, and I’m afraid these young ones were separated from the rest of us.”

Jaime puffed up as much as he could in his position and continued subtly trying to toss Cersei into the dirt.

“However,” the Guardian Faery continued, “you’d think I wouldn’t have to keep reminding _ you _that the daughter of a duke is not, in fact, a duchess.”

_ Ah, _ Cersei realized in a flash, the surprise of it finally allowing Jaime to free himself. She watched as he smoothed his Red Fountain uniform and tried to neaten his hair, twin spots of pink appearing high on his cheekbones. _ Oh, dear me. _

“Oh, fiddle-faddle, Tarth,” Jaime replied with an imperious wave of his hand. “You’ll be the Evenstar one day. No use pretending you won’t, so there’s no use addressing you otherwise. _ Your Grace.” _

Cersei met the Tully princess’ incredulous eyes and mouthed, _"__Fiddle-faddle?" _to the girl’s amusement. She raised her eyebrows in response and tried to hide her giggles in a coughing fit, interrupting Jaime’s and Lady Tarth’s back and forth.

“Oh, princess!” Lady Tarth nearly yelped, rushing over to examine her. “Are you hurt? I should get you all back to the school to be examined. Can’t believe the Tower’s security failed like that…”

The Tully girl waved away Lady Tarth’s concern with an, “Oh, no, I’m quite fine, Brienne.” She then launched into an animated retelling of the Lannister Twins’ bravery while the Tarth woman gathered the pixies around her to check their bumps and bruises.

Without looking at her brother, Cersei rolled her eyes and called out, “Jaime and I should provide an escort. Since it _ is _ somewhat our fault that your tour was disturbed. Don’t you think, _ brother, _ dear?”

Jaime opened his mouth.

“Yes, quite so. Please allow us to accompany you.”

Jaime closed his mouth.

The Evenstar’s daughter looked sternly at the two of them before nodding and striding to the edge of the clearing with a brisk, “Follow me, everyone, and stay on the path.”

Finally deigning to look at him, Cersei quirked an eyebrow in Jaime’s direction, who dipped into his fanciest court bow. “After you, sweet sister,” he said with a grin, and took up a guard position at the back of the group. After a few minutes of walking, he slowed their pace so they fell a bit further behind, and dropped his voice. “So, shall I assume I’m not getting that back then?”

Frowning, Cersei looked down at her belt, where Brightroar’s hilt had somehow found its place. Her fingers brushed the red jewel at its center and she abruptly realized that despite the effort of the battle, she felt almost invigorated. It used to be, when she attended Alfea, that transformation fields would leave her feeling drained and hypersensitive after they dissipated; at Cloud Tower, she found herself jittery and slow to calm.

Now, staring at their family’s ancestral blade, all she felt was a deep well of satisfaction and the hard-earned exhaustion of a battle well-fought.

A hand reached over to cover her own, and she looked up to see Jaime’s soft smile and sad eyes. “I suppose Tyrion _ will _be elated that he gets to tell Father to fill out a new set of enrollment forms, eh?”

Smiling back, Cersei replied, “Well, balance _ is _ important in this family. He can fill out three,” and twined their fingers together as they caught up to the others. _ Paladin of the Shining Sun, _ she thought as Jaime once again struck up conversation with Lady Tarth. _ I quite like the sound of that… _


	2. Prince of Silver Stars

The saddest part of the whole thing, Tyrion reflected every now and again, was that Tywin Lannister did _ not _hate him.

(He barely even disliked him, and that was only managed through sheer willpower, as they were so very similar to one another. It was almost impossible to dislike yourself when you happened to be Prince Tywin Lannister, regent of the Throne of the Utmost West. So the little that he accomplished took quite a bit of effort.)

No, Tywin did not hate his youngest son.

Tyrion thought he did, when he was younger, and even littler than he was once he was grown. He had even asked Jaime about it, about why Father seemed to hate him so very much, but Jaime had stuttered a bit and then laughed off the question as ridiculous. Stymied, he’d sought out Cersei, who had never lied to him, even to spare his feelings.

The crown princess had carefully placed her book aside and examined Tyrion’s face in silence for several moments. “Father doesn’t hate you,” she’d finally said, with the tone of someone who was very clearly about to say _ but, _ followed by something fairly awful. “It’s only… he loved Queen Mother so much that remembering she’s gone makes him sad. And, I’m sorry Tyr, but you’re an awfully large reminder that she’s not with us anymore. It makes it difficult for him to love you the way he should.”

Tyrion had nodded solemnly. It was the first time anyone had called him a 'large' anything.

“Don’t worry, though,” Cersei had continued, taking his little hand in her much larger one, “the rest of us love you more than enough to make up for Father’s lack.”

And so it had continued throughout his life: Prince Tywin rarely let a word of praise or care for his youngest pass his lips, but Cersei and Jaime were always waiting in the wings to make up for it. Tyrion could always count on his brother and sister to love him when the Prince-Regent could not.

He tried not to let it turn him bitter, but he was self-aware enough, even as a young lad, to know that he did not always succeed. The notorious black moods of the Lannister line had not passed him by, and the twins were not always around when he needed to be pulled out of his own head. Still, he persevered, and eventually learned how to twist his thoughts onto new topics when he became too melancholy for company.

(Cersei said it was an affliction they all suffered from, gazing wistfully at Jaime across the breakfast table as he stared unseeing at his food.)

And so Tyrion Lannister grew—as little as he did—with the knowledge that while his father did not love him as a son, the rest of Casterly Rock _ did. _ He was their Prince of Silver Stars, after all; his Mother’s son in all ways that mattered.

-

It still hurt, sometimes, though.

The coldness in Tywin’s eyes.

He grew used to that as well, until the day the Prince-Regent stood above him with a sword in his hands and named him Hand of the Queen on Solaris. Something very much like approval, like _ pride, _ glittered in his eyes as he lowered the blade onto Tyrion’s shoulders and affixed the pin to his doublet.

-

Prince Tywin looked positively frosty when Tyrion relayed Cersei’s message from Magix. A failed experiment, a malfunctioning ward, a fierce battle, more than a few revelations added in for a spot of fun, and two sets of enrollment papers with a third dated a year in advance.

“Your sister,” Tywin finally said in his most regal tone of voice, “is going to be the death of me.”

Trying very hard to hide a smirk, Tyrion cleared his throat and shuffled the paperwork in his hands. “Well, it will be good for Jaime to get some first-hand experience at ruling, don’t you think? The realm is calm and he could use a project while we’re gone.”

“The role of Hand of the Queen is not meant to keep one’s self occupied while their siblings are too busy gallivanting around the Magical Dimension to finish an educational degree and take their rightful place as ruler. It’s not meant to be used for _ character growth.” _

“Would you rather Cersei return without being certified at all?” Tyrion replied pointedly. “A degree from Alfea was impossible, and a degree from Cloud Tower is highly unlikely. At this point, we can either go along with her plan or force a Small Council vote to recall her from Magix without completing any formal education whatsoever.” A moment of silence. “And you know she’d never forgive us for it. This is the most excited I’ve heard her sound since she was sixteen and off to Alfea that first year.”

Prince Tywin’s face softened at the mention of jubilant little Cersei, determined to be as good a Guardian Faery as Mother had been.

“This is a _ good _thing, Prince-Regent,” Tyrion coaxed, throwing any subtlety to the wind. “Let Cersei find herself at Red Fountain the way she used to dream of finding herself at Alfea. Jaime can replace me as Hand of the Queen while I attend Cloud Tower, and then you can finally have the Rock back after that until we all finish schooling. It’s a good plan.”

His father pursed his lips but nodded all the same.

“At least I can finally pin your brother down long enough to drill some responsibility into that head of his,” Tywin acknowledged, pulling the enrollment forms across his desk. “And it’s high time you put that cleverness of yours to better use than being a proxy for Cersei and her ire towards me. Very well, Cersei to Red Fountain and you to Cloud Tower next term, with Jaime to Alfea the year after.”

Tyrion beamed. _ “Thank _ you,” he said, satisfied. “It’ll be good for us all. You’ll see.”

As he left Tywin to his paperwork, his father’s parting words stopped him at the door. “You remind me so much of your mother.” His voice remained as even as always. “Did you know that?”

Swallowing against the lump in his throat, Tyrion refused to turn, but he did glance back. “I did,” he replied faintly.

“Good.” Tywin’s gaze remained firmly on the paperwork he steadily filled out. His pen stilled. “I’m very proud of you, as well. Did you know _ that?” _

Tyrion did not answer, and the Prince-Regent did not stop him a second time when he slipped out of the room. The saddest part of the whole thing, he reflected, was that for all Tywin Lannister _ wanted _ to hate him—he loved Queen Joanna far too much to ever manage it.


	3. Prince of Moonlight

Jaime is the kind one.

When they were children—he and Cersei not yet old enough to do much of anything important, Tyrion learning in leaps and bounds—it occurred to him that he didn’t have a special name.

(Mama had always called him _ moonlight, _ but that was before she left so they could have Tyrion.)

Cersei was the ambitious princess, entrusted with the Ring of Solaris, inheritor of a string of titles long enough to make his head spin. And Tyrion was their clever little prince, the boy with stars in his eyes and silver on his tongue, getting into trouble and teaching himself to read when his minders weren’t watching.

But Jaime was only ever the golden lad with a sword in his hand.

_ (Moonlight isn’t golden, _ he thought petulantly for years and years, every time he heard the name. No more soft whispers in the night, _ good night, moonlight, _ or warm laughter in the midday sun, _ I love you, moonlight.) _

And when he brought it up one day to the others, his voice speculative like it didn’t hurt and his face smooth as still waters, they exchanged a look that spoke volumes.

“Oh, that’s easy,” Cersei had finally replied, a strong breeze against the water, and Tyrion had said, “You’re the only one in this family with a speck of kindness,” like it was obvious.

So, Cersei is the ambitious one, always clawing for more and more, to reach higher and higher; Tyrion is the clever one, devouring books and asking questions and learning, learning, learning; and Jaime is the kind one, who can look at a person and see all the ugliness in their souls and love them for it anyway.

It’s something of a comfort, especially when they point out, years later, that kind doesn’t always mean nice. Sometimes the kindest thing you can do for someone is the thing that hurts them the most.

-

_ (I have to go now, moonlight. I’m so sorry. Please, moonlight, please take care of your brother and sister. I love you, moonlight…) _

-

Father receives an offer for Jaime to squire for the King of the Crownlands when he’s fifteen. Even years after, Jaime is never certain whether it was the worst thing to ever happen to him, or the best, when Father accepts and send him to King’s Landing on Domino.

-

_ (Cruelty can be a kindness, darling. I have to leave my family, and that’s not fair, but I’m leaving it a little bit larger than it was. Do you understand, moonlight?) _

-

He stands next to King Aerys Targaryen’s shoulder for ten months out of the year and watches as the bright green in his eyes grows brighter and brighter, wilder and wilder.

He watches Queen Rhaella Velaryon cringe delicately away from her husband and frowns because he doesn’t understand her fear but sees it all the same.

He notices how Prince Rhaegar always places himself between his father and his betrothed, the princess of Dorne, who Cersei coos over sometimes in her letters. It gets worse after they finally wed.

Everything gets worse.

-

The maesters whisper together, thinking he hears nothing.

“Magical shock, for certain,” one of them says, something between awe and fear in his voice. “Never seen anything like it…”

“That’s because no one has ever survived taking so much corrupted magic into their core,” another replies, short and clipped, diagnosis and prognosis decided the moment they’d entered the room. “That the prince did so is troubling, to say the least.”

“He saved so many people,” a third whispers.

And the second replies, “He _ doomed _ so many people,” and round and round they went, while Jaime lay there and wished he couldn’t hear them at all, wished he’d stopped the king sooner, wished so many things.

-

He dreams of Prince Rhaegar shoving Twice-Princess Elia into his arms and shouting at him to get her to the portal. The Silver Prince rushes off to the throne room and Jaime stands there, frozen, until Elia makes a noise of fear and he does as he’s bid. She makes it through the portal and he makes it to the throne room and there’s no other choice, no other choice, he’s the kind one and cruelty can be a kindness and sometimes the kindest thing you can do causes the most pain and—

-

_ (My darling moonlight.) _

-

Twice-Princess Elia gives birth to triplets while he sleeps, and the day she brings them to visit is the day he awakens, the soft golden light of his magic healing itself dissipating in the face of three cooing angels.

A girl who should have been a crown princess, with her father’s eyes and mother’s hair giving her the look of a Dayne; a boy who will grow to be every inch the Salty Dornishman; and a second girl who is so much the spitting image of Queen Rhaella that it brings tears to Jaime’s eyes. He would kill and die for these precious babes, for their precious mother, but decides then and there that he’ll do something much more difficult.

He decides to live.

-

_ (Moonlight, moonlight, moonlight…) _

-

Jaime’s childhood practice of becoming smooth as still waters, and his squire lessons of projecting himself _ someplace else, anywhere but here, _ serve him well at Red Fountain. With princes and lordlings abound, frothing at the mouth to prove themselves, it becomes a necessity.

It’s proven to not be all bad, though, at Alfea’s annual welcome ball.

He has vague knowledge from Cersei’s many and varied stories that it’s tradition for Cloud Tower students to sabotage the ball in some way, but Jaime doesn’t quite cotton on to it _ happening _ until he literally trips over a group of faeries trying to. Well, he isn’t quite sure _ what _ they’re trying to do, huddled around the chest of gifts his schoolmates had brought. There’s certainly a lot of magic in the little closet it’s been stashed, but attuned as he is to faery magic, it strikes Jaime as more flash than substance.

Freshmen, then, most like.

_ Pixies, _ says a very snotty voice in the back of his head that sounds like Cerse.

They all gape at him for several seconds as he puts himself to rights, until the tallest girl he’s ever seen straightens up and looks him square in the face. He has to look two inches up to meet her baby blues, framed by choppy, straw yellow hair.

“Ladies,” he says with a small bow and a Lannister smile. “Is there a problem, or could you just not wait until the ceremony?”

“A group of witches cursed the Specialists’ presents, sir!” one of the faeries yelps in a broad Riverlands accent, prompting sighs from the others.

By far the prettiest girl he’d seen since one of Cersei’s age-mates, Ashara, shakes her head with a fond, “Walda…”

“Sorry, Miss Dayne,” Walda replies, wide-eyed, “but we can’t undo it ourselves, and you heard what the Lannister Princess said before they left!”

Blinking, it takes a moment for him to realize what the Riverlass means, then he can’t help but chuckle. “Met my sister already, have you?” he says with a smirk. “I’d say I hope she didn’t do anything too nasty to what’s in that chest, but knowing her, she used the most stubborn hex she knows on the damn things.”

The younger Dayne girl—Lyria, he thinks her name might be?—blinks big lilac eyes at him. “You’re one of the Lannister princes?” she asks, seemingly guileless but for the sly look in her eyes.

“Jaime Lannister, Paladin of Moonlight, at your service, ladies. And yourselves?”

“I’m Walda, Faery of Silver,” the cheerful Riverlass pipes up, when no one else speaks. "And this is my roommate, Allyria, Faery of Starfire. We’re the ones who saw your sister curse the presents, so we ran and got our RA, Brienne.” She indicates the big blonde, who has yet to un-narrow her eyes or make a single facial expression beyond _ threat detected. _ “She’s Faery of Gemstones. Then there’s Meera Reed, Faery of the Swamp”—a slight girl with green eyes and brown hair—“Shae Lorath, Faery of Sea Creatures”—the tall, willowy one who looks ready to cut him—“and Sand, of the domain of Knowledge.”

“Just Sand?” Jaime repeats, curious.

Brienne finally speaks, in a soft Stormlands accent but a sharp voice, as if daring him to argue. “Sarella when she’s a Faery, Alleras when he’s a Fae, and yes, _ just _ Sand when they’re Feyfolk.”

The feyfolk in question looks incredibly amused at their companion’s immediate willingness to throw down with him over the perceived slight. “My apologies, then,” Jaime says with a grin and a much deeper bow, only half in jest. “Ladies and _ gentlethem.” _

Sand cackles a laugh that reminds him of Twice-Princess Elia, dispelling the remaining tension in the room. “Well then, Princess Brienne,” he says, rubbing his hands together at the prospect of foiling his sweet sister’s plans. “Let’s see if I can’t lend you all a hand.”

“I’m not a princess,” Brienne says with a frown, “my father’s a duke, not a king,” and Jaime blinks again because _ Stormlands _ and _ of Gemstones _ and _ duke _ all slot together in his mind.

“Not… the Duke of _ Tarth?” _ he slowly replies. “Not the _ Evenstar? _ Grandson of Ser Duncan the Tall?”

The future Duchess of Tarth frowns even harder and looks at Jaime as if she suspects he's mocking her. Very combative, the duchess is, and _ so very tall. _

“Yes, Selwyn Tarth. My father.”

Jaime really doesn’t know what to do with that bland response, but sees Liege Sand and Lady Shae trade smirks and so soldiers on. “I stand corrected, Your Grace,” he corrects himself, and is somewhat delighted to see the frown deepen. Oh, the fun they’ll be having.

-

A few hours after the night has been saved and the ball ends, lying spread-eagle on his bed, Jaime reaches for his phone and taps out a message.

_ ** let me no if u need help wiht my sis agan ur grace ** _

He rolls over and falls asleep without ever hearing the chime of a reply, but when he wakes in the morning, four delightful words are there to greet him.

** _ I’m not a duchess. _ **

-

Three weeks later, he asks Tyrion (who asks Cersei) for advice, and three days after that a silver stationary necklace with blue sapphires is delivered to Duchess Tarth’s dorm room in a shower of golden sparks.

It arrives in his _ own _dorm room the day after that with a stinging hex attached.

-

He gets her a sword after that, made of ensorcelled Valyrian steel, stamped with blazing suns and crescent moons. It remains exactly where it is, but another stinging hex is attached to the begrudging thank you note.

-

Jaime doesn’t know why he doesn’t tell Tyrion or Cersei about the Duchess of Tarth and their… _contentious…_ relationship.

Maybe it’s because she’s the only friend he’s ever made outside of the social circles they all share on Solaris. Maybe it’s because she’s the closest to a real friend he’s ever had, full stop. Maybe it’s because, if she meets Tyrion she’ll realize how clever Jaime isn’t; if she meets unrelenting Cersei, maybe she’ll look at him and realize he’s meek in comparison.

He wants his friend for his own, is that really so bad?

-

They don’t see each other for months and months, exchanging only text messages and shared documents when the other needs help with schoolwork, and the occasional link to interesting or amusing videos online. When they finally come face to face at the end of the year, Jaime finds himself the opposite of tongue-tied, talking too much and too fast, like all the words he ever wanted to share with her but couldn’t manage in writing were finally spilling out.

Brienne is stiff as she was the first time they met, just standing next to her roommates as they mingle with his, but she digests all his indecipherable ramblings with the same steadiness as a blacksmith shaping a sword. Then she nods and lets her own words roll around her mouth awhile before replying, but reply she does.

The messages continue through the summer, sometimes slow trickles and sometimes roaring floods. Every time it settles Jaime just a little bit more. Until one day he realizes that Twice-Princess Elia and her darling angels are not the only things pushing him out of bed in the morning, and haven’t been for quite awhile.

He still doesn’t tell Tyrion and Cersei about Brienne, but it doesn’t matter because she never once indicates that she cares to meet them.

-

Brienne reaches her _ Enchantix _ midway through his sophomore year and when the almost-terse message chimes on his phone telling him, Jaime could just burst with pride.

A second chime, and he sees that Lady Walda has helpfully provided him with a picture from her first transformation: hair a halo of white-gold curls, held by a band of silver studded with pink gems that match her house’s sigil and long gloves to match, the little blue minidress that had shown off her legs to great effect a silky-looking thing that flows down to her knees, boots now flimsy sandals covered in yet more jewels, and gold and silver wings now huge things as wide as she is tall.

It’s all very overwhelming for a regular Tuesday afternoon and so all he can do is send a string of exclamation marks to the both of them and lie to his squad about what's got his eyes so misty.

She stays a few more weeks at Alfea for the official ceremony of recognition, which he is not permitted by the Battlemaster to attend, before heading back to Tarth as a fully-fledged Guardian Faery. His congratulations are so vehement as to be incomprehensible but he has faith that Brienne understands the sentiment behind the babble.

It becomes a much lonelier year without the Duchess to keep him apprised of the rivalrous goings-on between the faeries and witches, and without winged assistance to call upon when the rivalrous goings-on include Red Fountain as its target. He isn’t a monster, though, and simply messages Walda—or, in a pinch, Sand—when one or a few Specialists get it into their heads to initiate some mischief of their own.

But it is an unbearably quiet rest of the year.

-

When Brienne turns out to be leading the group of pixies that Cersei’s experiment-gone-wrong decides to target, Jaime forgets himself. Lannister pride and manners be damned, he throws himself into the opportunity and doesn’t realize that he’s shown his hand until Cersei’s voice breaks over them like a splash of cold water.

He freezes, thinks _ smooth as still waters, anywhere but here, _ but Brienne hardly glances at Cersei before dismissing her. It’s a revelation and suddenly he’s back to himself, as he always is around the duchess.

They snipe back and forth for a bit during the walk, Jaime eager as a puppy and Brienne dignified as a cat, until they break through the treeline to see shining lake water and the headmistress of Alfea. Cersei smooths things over as best she can with the Dowager Queen, and Brienne raises her eyebrows at Jaime pointedly when transfer papers are mentioned.

His cheeks redden and he gives her a Lannister smile that’s never once fooled the Duchess of Tarth. Brienne shakes her head with the tiniest smile but watches avidly as Cersei shows the pixies a few moves with Brightroar.

Jaime could feel jealous that their family’s ancestral blade is no longer his to wield. He could feel something, anything, that this too is lost to him in favor of one of his shining siblings. Instead, he thinks it’s appropriate that the blade he used on Domino pass to Cersei, who always was the more active of them.

Kindness has become so much harder over the years, so maybe faery magic is just the thing he needs to remind himself how it goes.

-

The night before he leaves Red Fountain for good, Brienne’s chime sounds, informing Jaime that the Evenstar has agreed to let her attend it herself for a trial year. Cersei’s ever-present, effervescent influence spreading that much farther.

Again, he could be jealous. Paladin of Gemstones has such a lovely ring to it, though.

-

** _ gud lukc, gemstones!!! _ **

** _ Good luck, moonlight. _ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm shocked i got all the way through this, tbh. anyway, gender stereotyping is a hell of a drug, kids, so just say no!


End file.
